


it might as well be spring

by Racethewind_10



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Claire is really tired of her idiot superheroes, F/F, Jessica explains Claire is their hero, Shower Sex, Smut, They fuck a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Racethewind_10/pseuds/Racethewind_10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or maybe on second thought the reason she’s here is that Jessica doesn’t fucking tease, just drops to her knees, nudges Claire’s legs apart, and puts her tongue on Claire, slow and bold and exactly how Claire likes it and Jesus. Her fingers grip at the sheets and the muscles in her legs jump uselessly against Jessica’s hands as Jessica carefully laves Claire’s clit and then proceeds to not touch it <i>at all</i> until Claire thinks she might scream and this, this is what she needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it might as well be spring

“Jones, you better damn well be in here. I need to come at least twice.” The familiar cold brass of Jessica’s battered door gives under Claire’s hand easily and she hip checks it back into place with a muscle memory that almost makes her cringe in its ease. It’s been over a year since they met and the door’s been fixed exactly once only to be broken two weeks later. Jessica hasn’t bothered repairing it since.

It’s stopped bothering Claire.

She doesn’t ask what the hell that means anymore.

The sound of Jessica’s voice drifts from the back of the apartment and Claire follows it, the words taking shape and meaning as she gets closer to the source.

“ -’s here I gotta go. Claire. You remember. Hot nurse who’s fucking me and not you.”

Claire rolls her eyes, guessing the person on the other end of the line is Luke then. He’s one of the few besides Trish and maybe Malcolm who can give Jessica’s voice that tiny bit of fondness, like someone ran fine grain sandpaper over steel. Doesn’t make it any softer but at least you won’t bleed out if you run your fingers along her edges - Jessica in a nutshell really, all sharp corners and brittle strength, welded together with scar tissue from emotional wounds most people wouldn’t survive. Like the New York streets they both call home, Jessica is crumbling grit and concrete, a perpetual ‘Danger: Construction Zone’ sign stuck out in neon orange for those smart enough to read it and like the city, she probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone functioning.

She does anyway.

Jessica’s compelling that way, frustrating and arousing in equal, unpredictable measure.

“Perv. Go away,” Jessica says as Claire steps into her bedroom. Her lips are pulled up into a hint of a smile though, a brightness in her eyes that wasn’t there when Claire first met her. It’s as small and delicate as a single flower growing up in the crack of a sidewalk, clean and yellow against grey and black, but it’s there, turning to face the sunlight.

Claire pinches the bridge of her nose. When she starts getting poetic it’s really time to get off.

The click of plastic on wood signals Jessica dropping her phone on the bedside table. “And what can I do for the esteemed Nurse Temple,” she asks - sarcasm and teasing, but no malice. She’s already shifting off the bed and Claire knows Jessica just wants to hear her say it.

“You, mouth, now,” Claire says, already unlacing her scrubs and stepping out of her shoes.

One ink-black eyebrow climbs toward her hair but Jessica says nothing, lips curving as her smile widens into something resembling true humor, wicked glint in her eyes. “God, Temple, you don’t call, you don’t write,” she slides off the bed, sauntering toward the kitchen, telling Claire to shut the hell up and get naked when she protests. “I’m just getting you a drink. You’re too wound up to get off.”

“I can’t drink. I have something to do later,” Claire tries, not even sure why she bothers with the lie. Maybe she’s just tired of feeling trapped.

Jessica’s harsh bark of laughter drifts from the kitchen, followed by the sound of rummaging in a cabinet and the clink of glass. “Bullshit.” She calls Claire’s bluff. “You’d never leave the hospital just to come get off in the middle of a shift and anything else can wait.”

It crawls just under her skin - the heat of frustration that Jessica knows her that well. It dies out just as quick as it comes, though, a wave washing up on the sand. Claire wants it to take the detritus of emotion littered between her ribs with it but she’s still left with too much under her skin and in her throat and dammit this was why she came here in the first place. “Jones!”

“Jesus, here,” Jessica says, stepping back into the room. She’s in nothing but a tank top and underwear, nipples straining clearly against the flimsy fabric and Claire focuses on that, lets her eyes linger. Jessica’s always been willing to offer up her body as a distraction for Claire, a gift that Claire takes greedily now.

A bottle of halfway decent whiskey disrupts her staring, golden liquid catching the grey light filtering through the open curtains. It’s a splash of warm color in an otherwise cool palette and Claire takes the chill glass with a nod of thanks, Jessica watching her silently as she sits up and chugs two deep gulps (it burns, sweet and hot going down and she savors the sensation) and then hands the bottle back. Now its her turn as spectator as Jessica takes a mouthful with professional ease, throat working as she swallows. Claire’s eyes catch on the sight of Jessica’s tongue slipping out to lick the last drop from her lips, leaving them pink and glistening.

That’s enough for her.

“C’mere,” she mutters, reaching out for Jessica. Sure enough, the soft-sharp taste of whiskey greets her on Jessica’s lips and tongue and its a different kind of heat that fills her mouth now. For a hard-edged woman, Jessica kisses with incredible softness - at least when she’s with Claire. Claire’s watched Jessica punch through walls but her hands on Claire’s face are gentle and careful, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw and easing the rubber band from her hair, letting it spill over Claire’s shoulders. On an empty stomach the whiskey burns quick like a struck match. It’s not enough to do much, just enough to light a flame in the pit of her stomach, flickering heat stoked by Jessica’s fingers caressing down her ribs and cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her areola until her nipples are hard and she’s arching into Jessica’s touch. It’s good, warm and light. She wants more.

“This is not an orgasm,” Claire mutters against Jessica’s lips, but she’s smiling and when Jessica laughs at her, no tang of bitterness, just delight, Claire remembers why her feet brought her to this particular broken door.

There’s the soft thud of a pillow on the floor and then Jessica grabs Claire’s legs and pulls her carelessly toward the edge of the bed.

Or maybe on second thought the reason she’s here is that Jessica doesn’t fucking tease, just drops to her knees, nudges Claire’s legs apart, and puts her tongue on Claire’s cunt, slow and bold and exactly how Claire likes it and Jesus. Her fingers grip at the sheets and the muscles in her legs jump uselessly against Jessica’s hands as Jessica carefully laves Claire’s clit and then proceeds to not touch it at all until Claire thinks she might scream and this, this is what she needed. Steady hands and a slick, hot mouth and a coiling tension inside her that pulls tighter and tighter until Jessica pushes two fingers into her and those lips Claire licked the last of the whiskey off wrap around her clit and suck just right until that coiling tension breaks. Her orgasm flashes up her spine and down the insides of her thighs and Claire jerks her hips against Jessica’s mouth, biting her lower lip and groaning in agonized relief.

Jessica slows her mouth and pulls away to kiss the inside of Claire’s thigh. “That’s one,” she grins like she just won the lottery and Claire slumps back against the covers, laughing until it hurts.

Orgasm two involves a vibrator Claire doesn’t remember Jessica owning the last time they fucked but it hardly matters. She comes hard enough to arch off the bed, pleasure so sharp it blurs the line between pain and the space behind her eyelids goes black and clean for a few glorious heartbeats, a litany of curse words falling off her lips like some people call on God. Claire’s a shitty Catholic; hasn’t gone to confession in a decade, figures since she works in a hospital she’s allowed to skip the sermons. Claire Temple’s God lives in IV lines and antibiotics and pain meds and gentle words of reassurance and good test results. He’s not some far off figure on a throne of clouds, he’s the smile of a little boy who can walk on his own again and the relief of a new mother when her baby cries for the first time. God breathes in the places she works 10 hour shifts. She doesn’t invite him into her bed.

Especially when Claire has no intention of feeling guilty about Jessica’s fingers inside her, the way they curl just right against that spot that almost makes Claire scream.

Jessica builds orgasm three like the damn tide - wave after wave that’s never quite enough until it is, Claire whimpering as it washes over her, leaving her limp and panting. Sweat’s plastered strands of hair to her neck and the sheets are clinging to her back and shoulders. Her calves are sore and there’s an ache in her thighs and its good. It’s exactly what she needed. With a hand that trembles she pushes at Jessica’s head, oversensitive but still not complaining when Jessica uses her tongue to tease her clit one more time before kissing the inside of Claire’s thighs. As Claire’s ragged breathing slows the sounds of the city spill in from outside, unending and comforting in its impersonal chaos while she tries to remember how the fuck to form words again.

“Thanks,” she manages eventually, swallowing past a dry throat. “I owe you.”

Still on her knees on the floor, Jessica shifts, lying half over Claire. The texture of her shirt against Claire’s cunt makes her roll her hips, too tired to really get aroused but enjoying the soft friction against still-sensitive flesh and pressure against her pubic bone. Jessica’s got her arms crossed just below Claire’s breasts, tongue and lips languid on the curve of Claire’s rib. “You don’t owe me shit, Temple. I like getting you off. Besides, all the times you’ve stitched me back together?” She doesn’t finish, just kisses the skin above Claire’s navel gently. Claire hears the words in the silence anyway, the unnamed scales people like Claire and Jessica carry around in their minds that weigh the debts they owe, but almost never the ones they’re owed.

Almost never. Claire throws her arm over her eyes. She should get up and shower, get dressed and leave but her muscles are so pleasantly heavy and she’s just so damned tired that moving seems to be beyond comprehension.

“So what is it? Not that I’m complaining, but you didn’t even buy me dinner this time,” Jessica asks, dragging her tongue over Claire’s skin and there it is again, that single note of careful, the minute change in pitch that Claire’s ears only pick up because she knows the range of Jessica’s voice now. Part of Claire thinks that unloading this on Jessica isn’t fair, that it will tip the scales too much, but there’s red in her memory - a dress, ripped leather, skin and muscle and so much blood - and she can’t wash it out alone. Strength doesn’t come from isolation and if nothing else, Claire owes Jessica her trust.

“I hate you people,” Claire sighs at last, pulling her hand off her eyes to stare up at the ceiling and making a vague gesture in Jessica’s direction.

Jessica makes a noise, lips against Claire’s skin curving in a smile. “White people or…” she makes her own vague motion with her hand, encompassing herself and the specter of Matt in the room.

Claire smacks her head gently. “If I was going to bitch about white people we’d need to be in a bar and you’d be buying.”

“Yeah,” Jessica concedes easily. “I don’t have enough booze for that.” Claire almost swats her again but the brief bubble of humor is a balm making it easier for the next words to crawl their up her throat, far enough she can drag them from the back of her mouth where they crowd, heavy and hard.

There’s a mystery stain on the ceiling just to the right of her. Its a good stain; looks a bit like Florida, just visible in the pewter light spilling in through the windows. Claire fixes her eyes on it till it almost disappears and wishes she could do that thing some people do, where they focus on something so hard they tune everything else out, even pain.

She can’t.

She’s always been too aware of the world around her. The smiles or the tears or the choked breaths or the heartbeats (or the silence where one should be) have always been too loud, always told Claire too much about people for her to turn her head and ignore them - their happiness, their pain. She’s never been able to numb that part of her that cares and no matter what she does it drives Claire to want to make things right, to put them back together, stitch by stitch. It’s why she became a nurse. Doctors might solve medical mysteries and live for the ego rush of surgery, holding life or death in their hands, but Claire lives and breathes on the front lines of life and death because that’s what nursing is. The front lines.

Triage is about the most immediate problem. If Claire has a code that she lives by, that might be it - one problem at a time. One day, one word, one breath at a time. It’s the only way lives get saved.

“You,” Claire says at last. Licks chapped lips. “Matt.” It’s easier once she says his name, the momentum building up inside her, pushing the words along. “Luke. Jesus even Trish. Why are you dumbasses so hellbent on running into danger. A gunfight, a robbery, fucking Kilgrave, a burning building why the fuck do you have to be so stupidly good?” she spits the last word, a curse of frustration, of helplessness at something she can’t - for once - fix.

Jessica’s silent, so still Claire can barely feel her breathe and she’s not surprised when Jessica shifts, sliding away and turning to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. Without Jessica’s warmth the air is cold and her skin feels tacky. Goosebumps rise on her arms and the last of whatever energy Claire’d had leaves her lips on a soft sigh. It’s evening now, the strip of sky Claire can see through the window faded to charcoal and the room is shaded with highlights from the street. She can’t see the stain on the ceiling anymore. Her stomach feels empty, or maybe that’s just her, the buzz of orgasm long gone and now she’s just fucking tired and irritated because really, what did she expect.

She almost jumps when Jessica starts talking, rough voice breaking the fragile silence with words that fall like glass shards.

“After Kilgrave, the first time. I was fucked up - well, you saw some of it. Anyway, jackass therapist gives me a ‘coping mechanism’.” Claire’s never seen anyone quite as effective at putting air quotes around something as Jessica. “Whenever I’d start to panic, I was supposed to list off the names of all the streets I ever lived on.” She lapses into silence for a long moment but Claire waits. Emotions from Jessica Jones could put that whole blood from a stone line to shame. “You know what I imagine now?”

Claire wants to touch Jessica then, run her fingers through black hair and stroke the too-tense muscles in her neck until they soften, until Jessica lets out that breath she’s been holding for over two years. Instead Claire digs her fingers into the bedspread to keep them still. There’s only half a woman sitting there with her shoulder bumping the outside of Claire’s calf. The rest is a wild thing, hurt and scarred and healing but never as whole as it once was, and Claire knows when touch can do more harm than good. She knows she made the right decision a moment later when Jessica speaks because there’s no way she could keep herself from faltering, and if she had, Jessica would only have read it as condemnation.

“Now I remember the way it sounded and felt when I snapped that bastard’s neck. I was thinking about it on the subway the other day and started laughing. Right there in the middle of the fucking car. Some old lady looked up at me and smiled back. Probably thought I was, I don’t know, whatever the fuck normal people laugh about. And I was remembering what it felt like to shatter bone like you twist off a beer cap. Me and Matt, maybe Luke too, we’re not running toward anything Claire. We’re fucking cowards. And Matt -” She lapses into silence again.

Jessica’s head tips back against the bed, the room dark enough Claire looses the delineation between her hair and the covers. Jessica doesn’t say anything else though. Instead the bed shifts and she gets up, briefly silhouetted in the doorway before disappearing into the dimly lit kitchen. There’s the familiar sound of a bottle being opened and then silence and Claire knows Jessica is working on getting drunk. She resists - barely - the urge to hit something and instead levers herself up off the bed, snagging a towel and some clean underwear from Jessica’s closet. In the bathroom she clicks on the light, squinting as it hits her eyes. Her hair’s a mess and there’s a hickey on her hip and she feels hollowed out and heavy. Although at least her skin’s not buzzing anymore so, better than nothing anyway. With a shake of her head Claire turns on the water, sticking her hand in the icy spray until it warms; till its almost burning. It takes way too long.

“Fuck, your water heater sucks,” Claire mutters. She doesn’t expect a reply so she jumps when Jessica says, “Yeah,” from right behind her.

“Jesus Jones what the h-”

Jessica kisses her, effectively shutting her up. Claire can’t even be irritated because the kiss is so soft, sweet even, and coming from Jessica that’s…almost disconcerting. Except then they’re both standing under the hot spray and Jessica’s got her lips on Claire’s neck and fingers easing between her legs again and dammit, Claire feels the irritation slide off her like the water cascading down her back because Jessica may be a mess but she fucks like she’s got a PhD in Claire’s cunt. Orgasm four leaves her boneless, her face pressed to Jessica’s shoulder, arms around Jessica’s neck.

“Matt’s a fucking idiot,” Jessica says, lips against Claire’s shoulder. She’s holding Claire up, the embrace intimate in a way they almost never are and Claire would never dare call Jessica on, but she’s loathe to move, that part of her that’s just so damn tired is hungry for whatever Jessica’s offering. “We’re all idiots. We do stupid shit because it’s the only way we know how to protect the people we give a shit about.” Jessica’s words are wet and soft under the cascade of water. Not slurring, but definitely listing, consonants drawn out just a beat too long, syllables falling just a bit too close, mingling with the water like blood and washing down the drain.

Claire wonders if the two of them are any cleaner in their wake or if this is just causing more damage.

Jessica seems past stopping, though. Her fingers dig into Claire’s hips as if she’s trying to use Claire to hold herself up and though her head is bent, curtain of wet, dark hair hiding her face, her words stumble their way to Claire’s ears just fine.

“You wanna know why we do what we do? Because we’re fucking cowards who don’t know how to let people in. We’ve only got two maybe three people in this whole life we can manage to give a damn about and we’re scared every fucking day they’re gonna walk away or get taken. So we punch walls and get in fights and take on stupid quests because we’re chickenshit assholes who don’t know how the hell to just love somebody. You know why Matt is such a moron? Because you’re his hero - you’re our superhero - and he, we don’t know how else to tell you. And it’s fucked up and wrong, but its all our stupid ass brains can figure out how to say what we’re trying to say.

“I’m not,” Claire starts, but Jessica cuts her off.

“You a fucking hero Claire, so shut up.” Jessica sighs it against her skin, more weary than sharp, something aching under the words like a badly set bone. “You care. You let people in. Hell the first time I met you, you didn’t know me from a serial killer but you helped me, and Luke, patched us up, kept coming back. You, Trish, you still think people are worth saving. Even people like us.” Her voice cracks on the last word and Claire wonders if Jessica meant to say ‘me.’ Wonders if it matters since she can hear it anyway. She wants to be angry, wants to tell Jessica (and Matt) not to put this shit on her but no one ever accused Claire Temple of being stupid. There’s a part of her that’s always understood at least a little of what Jessica’s saying, whether she believes it or not.

With a grunt she drops her forehead against Jessica’s shoulder twice, kissing the flushed skin (Jessica looks like a Wisconsin tourist in L.A. under hot water) in silent apology. “So what you’re saying is I’m stuck with you idiots.”

Jessica’s fingers at her hips relax, one hand smoothing across Claire’s lower back. “I’m saying don’t feel bad about all the ways we get busted up Claire, because no broken bone will ever hurt us as bad as losing someone like you.”

Something about the way she says that gets under Claire’s skin like nothing so far and she steps back, ignoring the loss of heat of Jessica’s skin. “So what, losing you isn’t going to hurt me? That’s bullshit and you know it, Jones.”

“Yeah, it is.” That stops Claire’s anger, Jessica conceding a point always throws her and gives her an urge to go buy a fucking lottery ticket. She’s not allowed to indulge the satisfaction though, because Jessica keeps talking, the slur leaving her words as her metabolism burns through the booze, every syllable grinding across a wetstone until they’re jagged and shining. “But if you lost us eventually you’d heal. You’re the most emotionally healthy person we probably all know. You’d grieve, and it would hurt like hell, but you wouldn’t let it kill you. I told you,” Jessica says, scrubbing her hands over her face. “We’re not the good guys. We’re not just afraid of losing people because it will hurt, we’re afraid because we know that we’ll just fucking roll over and let it kill us. That’s the difference between you and us, Claire. When we’re hurt - really hurt - we’re too weak to get back up unless we’re angry. You’re the one who keeps fighting. And living. You’re the hero.”

Apparently exhausted, Jessica folds herself down onto the tiny ledge in the shower, head bowed and resting in her hands. Tired. They’re all so damn tired but maybe Jessica has a point. Claire’s been tired most of her adult life. Tired of seeing people die who didn’t need to. Tired of seeing families torn apart. Tired at the end of double shift when the pain in feet goes all the way up to her hips.

It’s never stopped her before.

She really fucking hates it when Jessica manages to be right.

“Oh for Christ’s sake get up. You melodramatic asshole,” Clarie turns and grabs the loofah and the body wash. The water’s already starting to cool, they’re going to have to hurry. Then again, she has every intention of using the harness she knows Jessica keeps in the nightstand and the longest, thickest cock she can find in Jessica’s toy chest so getting clean is probably a waste of time.

Startled dark eyes look up at her and Claire just holds out her hand, pulling Jessica up and pressing their bodies together, enjoying the way Jessica’s breasts and warm skin feel against her. “I’m going to fuck you through the mattress when we’re done here, so get moving.”

Now its Jessica’s turn to blink. “Claire?”

“Sometimes, you’re not entirely stupid okay?”

Jessica’s eyes search her face and whatever she’s looking for she must find it because slowly, slowly she smiles. It’s a little shaky, a little uncertain, but it reaches her eyes. Claire nods. “Now hurry the fuck up the water’s getting cold.”

Jessica’s hand snakes out and just turns off the tap, lips ticking upward into a smirk. “No point in wasting the water if we’re just gonna get filthy again.” Claire pinches her nipple in retaliation.

 

* * *

 

The display on Claire’s phone says its after 3am. Her muscles ache and the bed is ruined, rumpled sheets sticking to sweat-slick skin. In the still air, goosebumps form down her arms but her front is warm where she’s half on top of Jessica, arm thrown around her and head pillowed on Jessica’s breasts. Jessica’s hand is in her hair, fingers making tiny circles on her scalp and Claire feels sleep pulling at her. They should get up and shower - for real this time - but Claire can’t be bothered to find the momentum to move.

Doesn’t regret it either.

“Claire?” her name on Jessica’s lips is rough and broken with sleep and Claire knows there’s no way the other woman is going to get up now.

“Hmm?” is all she can manage herself.”

“Love you,” Jessica sighs, chest falling gently under Claire’s cheek. Claire wonders how long Jessica’s been holding that in.

“Love you too asshole,” she whispers, closing her eyes. Her skin is calm and her bones are light, her arm around Jessica the only thing keeping her from drifting off. Claire lets go and when she sleeps it's dreamless.

 

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to just be a useless "Claire is horny and Jessica is useful" fic but it devolved into feelings. Whoops. 
> 
> I haven't seen DD season 2 and am not planning on it. All characterization is drawn from JJ season 1. The only thing I borrow at all from DD is some passing mentions to wrestling with notions of faith and God. And I do mean passing because this fic isn't about anything substantive its just two amazing ladies dealing with stuff. And having sex.


End file.
